The Book of Queens
by yumi michiyo
Summary: She can't touch or be touched. Elsa-centric.


There is a certain book kept in a secret place in the royal library; its location handed down from mothers to daughters, aunts to nieces, mothers-in-laws to their sons' brides and thus preserved in the line of queens of the Arendellian royal family.

Today is that special day the current queen has looked forward to since the first time she held her baby girl in her arms; today Elsa turns eighteen, and is ready to learn the secret.

"Happy birthday, Elsa," says the queen fondly as she enters the blue-tinged (but maybe it's only her imagination) bedroom. She holds out her arms to her oldest girl.

"Thank you, Mama." Elsa smiles but she does not open her arms to return the embrace. The queen hangs in midair. Their eyes meet and clash silently in a battle of wills –

Her mother relents and tucks her hands neatly in front of her (but they still ache to touch her).

Elsa's smile turns sad. "Where's Papa?"

"He will be here later this afternoon," reassures the queen (she walks on thin ice around this special, sad girl). "But now… now it's just you and me."

She half-turns, opens the door a fraction. "Come with me, Elsa."

"I…"

"Trust me."

And she does (because she doesn't trust herself).

They walk through the deserted hallways not side-by-side, but with Elsa trailing back a few paces. She walks with her head bent, her gloved hands held stiffly before her.

At the library, the queen's eyes trail over the shelves and shelves of books that haven't changed since her own time, when she was a young nervous girl of twenty-one, newly-arrived in Arendelle to wed their prince.

The queen walks along the shelves, touching the familiar books, half-lost in her memories of her past. Elsa shadows her, her eyes wide (she takes care so there is no accidental contact).

"Here." The older woman pulls out a weighty leather-bound tome from a corner and brings it over to the fire. The Old Norse runes on the cover are indecipherable to Elsa, being out of the scope of her studies.

When the book is opened, it becomes apparently clear that it is a decoy, concealing another volume hidden inside a cutout. The queen lays aside the larger book, withdrawing the small one and gesturing for Elsa to sit beside her. She does, gracefully and hesitantly, her body composed of rigid lines and planes (she sits like ice on a stove that knows it will melt at any time).

"This book," says the queen reverently, "has been handed down for generations through the queens of our family. And now, my daughter, you have come of age, and it is your turn to know."

Elsa's breath catches.

Her mother understands. "Traditionally, it has been passed down between queens, but when Anna turns eighteen, I will show this to her as well." She slips the book between slim gloved hands.

Slowly, she turns to the first page but is stopped by a gentle hand.

"There is plenty of time to read it later." A faint smile. "Elsa, this book is about the things a queen must know. It is a collection of years and years of lessons learnt and lifetimes lived."

"My daughter." A warm hand is placed on Elsa's shoulder; she stiffens and jerks back as though burned (full of cold and ice, maybe she is). Heartbreak flashes momentarily in the queen's eyes.

"I know life has not been easy on you, Elsa," she continues, her hand brushing the soft gloved hands, "and it is another incredible burden that you were born first, not Anna."

"Take the book back to your room and read it. When you are done, return it to me. Heed the advice contained well – " the queen's eyes are suddenly unable to meet her daughter's " – from now on."

Elsa's eyes shine with determination. "Yes, Mama."

The book sears her lap like fire on ice.

* * *

She starts reading upon entering her room, putting it down only to greet her parents when they come to wish her a happy birthday, and to go downstairs for a special birthday dinner. Still-gangly Anna gives her a new pair of gloves which sports tangled, clumsy embroidery ("I did it myself," says her sister sheepishly).

Elsa thanks her with as much warmth as she can muster (which is not much for this shy snow princess).

The book is a chronicle of queens; although she has read the histories, seen the stern portraits in the castle, the book contains their stories in their own writing.

She reads of lost children, bloody wars, cruel husband-kings, lives flickering out like candles in breezes.

But she also reads of prosperous times, long-awaited births, days of triumph, great romances.

The queens of the past speak to her in familiar voices, sharing their souls with her. Time has not dimmed their legacies.

She turns a page and pauses; her mother's elegant handwriting now fills the space. Elsa reads about her birth, the joy of her mother, the discovery of her gift (no, her curse). Anna's birth is recorded too, along with heartfelt wishes for both her daughters.

Tender affection and maternal pride shines from every letter, every fond word, every laborious description. Eventually they blur into a hopeless jumble and Elsa wipes her eyes with her hand.

Even though she doesn't trust herself to touch the people she loves or be touched by them, her mother found a way.

The next morning, the queen is pleasantly surprised to receive her first hug from her daughter in years (Elsa is warm and solid and she has grown so _tall_).

She is overjoyed to have her eldest back and they can begin to make up for the lost years.

Then three short weeks later, they have to leave for a kingdom a few days' voyage away.

* * *

On Anna's eighteenth birthday, Elsa hesitates outside her door. The book is stored safely in its hiding-place (these days nothing is safe around her) and she knows it is time.

But she is no mother, not yet a queen, and barely even a sister.

She knows she should have written something in the book to let Anna know _she isn't alone _but the inkwell ices over and her pen grows cobwebs of frost.

Guilt eats at her because she has failed in that one simple thing.

Elsa raises a hand to knock but it freezes in place. Her brittle nerve fails her and she sweeps away back to her room – but she stops by the library first.

_Forgive me, Anna_, she whispers, _because I can't tell you what I want you to know._

_Forgive me, Mama, because I failed you._

Mastering her emotions, she takes pen to paper again (this time it doesn't fail her because she knows Anna will have to be queen someday) and starts her first entry.

At the very least, she can love her sister without touching her.

_In three days' time I am to be crowned Queen of Arendelle…_


End file.
